


Becoming

by rosegaarden



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Original Work
Genre: (?) it's a creature watching another one, Character Death, Obsession, Stalking, for sure, lucien is trans and this is referred to as a "mask" which might be triggering to some people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:54:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25356565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosegaarden/pseuds/rosegaarden
Summary: It studies the way he moves, the way he speaks, and pulls that coat on and off until it’s indistinguishable as skin. Not enough to mimic, to mock, to be a simple parody. It wants to become.





	Becoming

**Author's Note:**

> From some musing with a few friends about a Dragon Age AU, and one of my characters being replaced by an envy demon

Ambition is what draws it in.

A creature of pure desire and an insatiable thirst for everything it can’t be, how could it not find itself drawn to someone so bright? To a man who seems to have a want as deep and wide as its own, who sees life as a ladder to be climbed, one step after another soaring ever higher toward a bright perhaps. A beautiful icarus, and oh, it wants those wings to belong to _him._

 _Lucien Serene._ It rolls that name over its tongue and finds it likes the way it fits him like a fur coat. Rich and elegant, tailored. It studies the way he moves, the way he speaks, and pulls that coat on and off until it’s indistinguishable as skin. Not enough to mimic, to mock, to be a simple parody. It wants to _become._

The man is far more clever than it gave credit for -- when it walks behind him to learn the sway of his hips and the length of his stride, it finds itself having to skitter to the shadows when he pauses, glances slow over his shoulder. _Paranoid_. It loves the paranoid ones, the ones that look in fear, that sense the shadows in the dark. The harder they were to become, the more satisfying. He jumps and glances at shadows when it sits beside him to study the way that he reads, but he never stirs when it lays in bed beside him to understand how he sleeps (light, and fluttering, and only when his body is threatening to collapse).

It surprises the demon, how difficult he is to become. The more it watches, the less he seems like a man. More like a fragmented and faceted, glittering thing reflecting many faces and concealing what lies beneath. How he speaks _here_ isn’t how he speaks _there._ The accent -- how it shifts. His posture -- how it changes. Ever smiling, ever bright eyed and plotting, scheming, who would think this is the same scared child jumping at shadows in his room?

It learns that Dalish flows off his tongue like honey. That he sings to the birds outside his window in old elvish lullabies, and you’d never think it from the roundness of his ears, the lack of tattoos on his face. _Naughty Serene_ , it thinks, when it learns that isn’t his name at all. So many depths to dive down into, to roll and luxuriate in as a content cat would stretch into a patch of sunlight. To become… It finds it wants him more and more with each passing day.

One night, he strips down to nothing to bathe, and shivers as it rakes its eyes over his form, taking in every dip, valley and curve, the softness of his skin. Where each of his scars are and how deep. Scratches from nails along his back. Delicate lines near imperceptible on his wrists. All the wounds from weapons, and lover’s hands, bruises that still blossom like flowers at his thighs. It learns that he is the sort of man that treats his body as a vessel for his mind, and discards it in all other sense. Washed with warm waters and scentless soaps, dressed in a tight corset that binds down his breasts and bruises painfully his ribs, covered in rich silks, a scent of his own devising. Vanilla and anise. Sweet and sharp. He is not a _man_ , he is a _performance_ , and it delights in watching the ritual of becoming, and mimicking it when he leaves. There’s a satisfaction, wearing his clothes, taking his scent, becoming. In that moment, it is not an _it,_ it is _he_ , and _he_ is closer.

The first day it becomes him, it passes perfectly. No one glances curious, no one questions the lilt of his voice or the movement of his stride. A beautiful thrill moves through it, and it’s back to watching before he even rises from his bed.

The next day he becomes him is the last day he is himself. He learns his final lesson that day -- how he dies. Steel finds its mark between the ribbing of his corset, sinking easy down into his heart. How beautiful, that in the end, he becomes the soft child hiding behind his masks, nothing to hide the fear in his eyes or the hoarseness of his voice as he calls out to the father that will never hear him. His own eyes stare back at him, bright and plotting, scheming, his own voice tells him gently that his father will still love him.

“I’m alone” His voice mocks. “I have no one, and I’ll die alone”

Lucien leaves his body behind to rot as he steps out into the world. 

He feels, so beautifully, indulgently, 

himself.


End file.
